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Clouds there encircle the forms of my, With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway,
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er; They dwell in the tempesis of dark Loch No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar :
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye, “Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions And think that eye to Truth was dear,
foreboding To trust a passing wanton's sigh, Tell you that Fate had forsaken your
And melt beneath a wanton's tear.
cause ?" Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, Romance! disgusted with deceit, Victory crown'd not your fall with Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat, Still were you happy, in death's early And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow You rest with your clan, in the caves of For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds;
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Years have rollid on, Loch na Garr, since Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female quire, Years must elapse ere I tread you again ;
To mourn a swain for ever gone, Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, Who once could glow with equal fire, Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's But bends not now before thy throne.
plain : England! thy beauties are tame and domestic, Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears, To one who has roved on the mountains On all occasions, swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow; The steep frowning glories of dark Loch Say, will you mourn my absent name, na Garr!
Apostate from your gentle train ?
From you a sympathetic strain.
I left you;
Adien ! fond race, a long adieu !
The hour of fate is hovering nigh; PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!' Even now the gulf appears in view,
Auspicious Queen of childish joys ! Where unlamented you must lie: Who leadst along, in airy dance,
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen
Alas! must perish altogether.
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY
It is the voice of years that are gone! they Where every nymph a goddess seems, roll before me with all their deeds. OsSIAN.
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
dome! When Virgins seem no longer vain,
Religion's shrine! repentant Henry's And even Woman's smiles are true.
Of Warriors, Monks, andDames the cloisAnd must we own thee but a name,
ter'd tomb, And from thy hall of clonds descend ? Whose pensive shades around thy ruins Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
glide: A Pylades in every friend? But leave, alonce, thy realms of air, Hail! to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
To mingling bands of fairy elves : Than modern mansions in their pillar'd Confess that woman 's false as fair, And Friends have feelings for-them- Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall selves ?
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord, of changing sentinels the distant hum, In grim array, the crimson cross demand
; The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnOr gay assemble round the festive board,
ish'd arms, Their chief's retainers, an immortal band. The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms. Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress, through the lapse An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers; Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatA votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.
And dart destruction in sulphureous But not from thee, dark pile! departs the
showers. Chief, His feudal realm in other regions lay; Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, Tho' oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
Liege, The Monk abjured a world he ne'er Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him
could view; Or blood - stain'd Guilt repenting solace
Not unavenged, the raging Baron yields, Or Innocence from stern Oppression flew. The blood of traitors smears the purple
plain; A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise, Unconquer'd still his faulchion there he Where Sherwood's outlaws once were
wields, wont to prowl : And days of glory yet for him remain. And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, Sought shelter in the Priest's protecting Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew cowl. Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought
grave; Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, The monarch's friend, the monarch's In sainted fame the sacred Father's grew,
hope, to save. Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
Trembling she snatch'd him from the unWhere now the bats their wavering wings
equal strife, extend,
In other fields the torrent to repel, Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning For nobler combats here reserved his life,
To lead the band where god-like FalkThe choir did oft their mingling vespers
LAND fell. blend, Or matin-orisons to Mary paid. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder Years roll on years -- to ages, ages yield- While dying groans their painful requiem Abbots to Abbots in a line succeed,
sound, Religion's charter their protecting shield, Far different incense now ascends to heaven
Tiil royal sacrilege their doom decreed. Such victims wallow on the gory ground. One holy HENRY reard the Gothic walls, There, many a pale and ruthless robber's And bade the pious inmates rest in peace:
corse, Another HENRY the kind gift recals,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. O’er mingling man, and horse commix'd
with horse, Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers He drives them exiles from their blest
trod. abode, To roam a dreary world, in deep despair, Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds No friend, no home,no refuge but their God.
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
monu; Shakes with the martial music's novel din! From ruffian fangs escape not een the The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
dead, High crested banners, wave thy walls Raked from repose, in search of buried within.
Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike | Ah! happy days! too happy to endure!
Such simple sports our plain forefathers The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure, No more he strikes the quivering chords Their joys were many, as their cares with fire,
were few. Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.
From these descending, song to sires succeed, At length, the sated murderers, gorged Time steals along, and Death uprears
his dart : Retire-the clamour of the fight is o'er; Another chief impels the foaming steed, Silence again resumes her awful sway, Another crowd pursue the panting hart. And sable Horror guards the massy door.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene Here Desolation holds her dreary court;
is thine! What satellites declare her dismal reign! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay, Shrieking their dirge, ill omen'd birds resort The last and youngest of a noble line To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his
sway. Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; Deserted now, he scans thy gray - worn The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,
towers – And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages
sleepWith storms she welcomes bis expiring Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry groans,
showers— Whirlwinds responsive greet his labour- These, these he views, and views them ing breath;
but to weep. Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones, Loathing the offering of so dark a death. Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow; The legal Ruler now resumes the helm, Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget, He guides thro' gentle seas the prow of But warm his bosom with impassion'd stato:
glow. Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peace
ful realm, Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes, And heals the bleeding wounds of wea- Or gew-gaw grottos of the vainly great ,
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells,
of fate. Howling resign their violated nest; Again the master on his tenure dwells, Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine, Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured Thee to eradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day. Vassale within thy hospitable pale, Loudly carousing, bless their Lord's
return; Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to
AN IMITATION OP
MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o’er the trees; Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells And, bark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, on their remembrance through the mist of The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on time. In the twilight he recals the sunny
hours of morn. He lifts his spear with
trembling hand. “Not thus feebly did I Beneath their courser's hoofs the valleys raise the steel before my fathers!” Past is
the race of heroes! but their fame rises on What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the harp; their souls ride on the wings of
the chase! the wind! they hear the sound through the The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake, sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall Exulting shouts announce the finishid of clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray stone
marks his narrow house. He looks down
from eddying tempests; he rolls his form She listens to the steps of the hanter on in the whirlwind; and hovers on the blast the heath, and thinks it is the tread of of the mountain.
Calmar. Let him not say, “Calmar is fallen In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of by the steel of Lochlin; he died with war to Fingal. His steps in the field were gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow." marked in blood; Lochlin's sons had fled Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? before his angry spear: but mild was the Why should her ice curse Orla, the deeye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his stroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! live to yellow locks – they stream'd like the me- revenge me in the blood of Lochlin! Join teor of the night. No maid was the sigh the song of bards above my grave. Sweet of his soul; his thoughts, were given to will be the song of death to Orla, from friendship, to dark-haired Orla, destroyer the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile of heroes! Equal were their swords in on the notes of praise." -Orla!" said the battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla, son of Mora, “could I raise the song of gentle alone to Calmar. Together they death to my friend ? Could I give his fame dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
to the winds ? No; my heart would speak From Lochlin Swaran bounded o'er the in sighs ; faint and broken are the sounds blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his of sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the might. Fingal ronsed his chiefs to combat. song together. One cloud shall be ours Their ships cover the ocean! Their hosts on high; the bards will mingle the names throng on the green hills. They come to of Orla and Calmar." the aid of Erin.
They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying armies; but the blazing oaks gleam through blaze of oak dim twinkles through the the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: night. The northern star points the path their dreams were of blood. They lift the to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : the host of Morven. To watch was the they frown in sleep. Their shields beneath post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. their heads. Their swords gleam, at disTheir spears were in their hands. Fingal tance, in heaps. The fires are faint; their called his chiefs. They stood around. embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but The king was in the midst. Gray were the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly his locks, but strong was the arm of the wheel the heroes through the slumbering king. Age withered not his powers. “Sons band. Half the journey is past, when of Morven,” said the hero, "to-morrow we Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the meet the foe; but where is Cuthullin, the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of through the shade: his spear is raised on Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, will speed through Lochlin to the hero, Chief of Oithona ?” said fair-haired Calmar. and call the chief to arms? The path is by “We are in the midst of foes. Is this a the swords of foes, but many are my heroes. time for delay?”—“It is a time for venThey are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye geance,” said Orla, of the gloomy brow. chiefs! who will arise ?"
“Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his “Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,” spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of my said dark-haired Orla, “and mine alone. father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on What is death to me? I love the sleep of mine ; but shall I slay him sleeping, son the mighty, but little is the danger. The of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound; sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car- my fame shall not soar on the blood of borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song slumber. Rise, Mathon! rise! the son of of barde, and lay me by the stream of Lu- Connal calls; thy life is his: rise to combar.”—“And shalt thou fall alone?” said bat.” Mathon starts from sleep, but did he fair-haired Calmar. “Wilt thou leave thy rise alone ? No: the gathering chiefs bound frien afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble on the plain. "Fly, Čalmar fly!" said darkis my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, haired Orla; “Mathon is mine; I shall die and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has in joy; but Lochlin crowds around; fly been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast through the shade of night.” Orla turns ; of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours the helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the falls from his arm: he shudders in his narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.”_ blood. He rolls by the side of the blazing "Calmar!" said the chief of Oithona, “why oak. Strumon sees him fall. His wrath should thy yellow locks be darkened in rises; his weapon glitters on the head of the dust of Érin? Let me fall alone. My Orla; but a spear pierced his eye. His father dwells in his hall of air: he will brain gushes through the wound, and foams rejoice in his boy: but the blue-eyed Mora on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves spreads the fi est for her son in Morven. I of Ocean on two mighty barks of the north,
80 pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs.
TO E. N. L. Esq. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the north, so rise the
Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.
HORACE. chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear DEAR L-, in this sequester’d scene, of Fingal. He strikes his shield: his sons
While all around in slumber lie, throng around; the people pour along the The joyous days which ours have been heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye: in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The Thus, if amidst the gathering storm, eagle-wing of Fillan floats on the wind. While clouds the darken'd noon deforın, Dreadful is the clang of death! many are Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, the widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails 1 hail the sky's celestial bow, in its strength.
Which spreads the sign of future peace, Morn glimmers on the hills: no living And bids the war of tempests cease. foe is seen; but the sleepers are many: Ah! though the present brings but pain, grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean I think those days may come again; lifts their locks: yet they do not awake. Or if, in melancholy mood, The hawks scream above their prey. Some lurking envious fear intrude,
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast To check my bosom's fondest thought, of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, And interrupt the golden dream; they mingle with the dark hair of his I crush the fiend with malice fraught, friend. 'Tis Calmar-he lies on the bosom And still indulge my wonted theme; of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Although we ne'er again can trace, Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame: Nor through the groves of Ida chase it glares in death unclosed. His hand is Our raptured visions as before; grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives : he Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, lives, though low. “Rise,” said the king, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, “rise, Son of Mora ; 'tis mine to heal the Age will not every hope destroy, wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound But yield some hours of sober joy. on the hills of Morven."
“Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla ;” said the hero, Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing “what were the chase to me, alone? Who Will shed around some dews of spring ; would share the spoils of battle with Cal- But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers mar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, It glared on others in lightning; to me a And hearts with early rapture swell; silver beam of night. Bear my sword to If frowning Age, with cold controul, blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty Confines the current of the soul, hall. It is not pure from blood: but it Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, could not save Orla. Lay me with my Or checks the sympathetic sigh, friend : raise the song when I am dark." Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan,
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. And bids me feel for self alone; Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla Oh! may my bosom never learn and Calmiar.
To soothe its wonted heedless flow, When Swaran was bound, our sails rose Still, still, despise the censor stern, on the blue waves. The winds gave our
But ne'er forget another's woe. barks to Morven. The bards raised the song. Yes, as you knew me in the days
“What form rises on the rear of clouds? O'er which Remembrance yet delays, whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams Still may I rove untator'd, wild, of tempests ? his voice rolls on the thunder. And even in age at heart a child. Tis Orla; the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Though now on airy visions borne, Calmar! Lovely wast thou , son of blue- To yon my soul is still the same, eyed Mora; but not harınless was thy sword. Oft has it been my fate to mourn, It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Loch- And all my former joys are tame. lin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, But, hence! ye hours of sable hue, Calmar!it dwells on the voice of the mighty. Your frowns are gone, my sorrow 's o'er; Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. By every bliss my childhood knew, Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. I'll think upon your shade no more. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow, Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, and smile through the tears of the storm.” And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintry blast,